Teddy #4
I feel Ron’s hand on mine, squeezing firmly, urging me to calm down just as he does when he asks me to shut my eyes and pray.
The twink howls and storms away.
“That wasn’t nice, Teddy,” Ron says. He leans over and puts his head on my shoulder. “But it was necessary,” he whispers.
I kiss him on top of the head and slam my cocktail. “I must go be with my people.”
I walk out of Streetbar and cross the street, past a dance club and directly into a show tunes bar.
“Hi, Dorothy!”
Bob, the bouncer out front, gives me a kiss on the cheek when I arrive.
“Finally, the respect I deserve!”
I head inside. The first thing I hear is the crowd screaming, “No wire hangers!” A clip from Mommy Dearest is playing on the big screen TVs, the patrons roaring in laughter.
In the blink of an eye, Oklahoma! begins to play, and the crowd roars again, changing the lyrics ever so slightly to fit the mood.
The bar is full, nearly everyone is over sixty. Televisions play the same songs from the same old musicals over and over: Hello, Dolly!, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Mame, Wicked. It never changes. And that routine is comforting.
Keith, the head bartender, holds up a Rose Kennedy as soon as he sees me. When he hands it to me, I hear the crowd roar again.
“Oklahomo! So gay!”
I scan the bar for a seat.
A line of small tables sits against the back wall, a long banquette running the length of the wall before the windows, and
I lift my tunic to prevent it from being stomped on as I slink toward the only open spot. As soon as I get settled and take
a sip, I hear my name.
“Teddy?”
Larry and Phil are seated next to me.
I stare at them, unable—for once—to find any words.
Their faces look as surprised as mine must.
I haven’t seen either of them since John died. The two of them used to be constants in our lives: euchre nights, Church of
Mary, Bill’s Pizza once a month. They were John’s friends when we met, but I believed they became mine, too, over time. In
fact, I was the social conduit for the four of us, the one who scheduled our meetups.
“How have you been?” Larry asks.
How do I answer?
People always talk about which friends you lose after a breakup, when people eventually end up taking sides, but few talk about the friends you lose when a spouse dies.
It’s a double death. I tried a few times to reach out to Larry and Phil in the weeks and months after John’s funeral.
At first they offered weak excuses for not being able to get together.
Then they stopped responding altogether.
I was pissed, but figured that some people simply couldn’t revisit the sadness and grief that lingers like a fog when they see me, now a third wheel without my other half.
Then I heard firsthand that Larry had been suggesting to our mutual friends that I had somehow contributed to John’s depression and suicide.
Ron coaxed me out of the house to grocery shop with him at Ralphs a few weeks after John died. It was one of my first public
appearances, which I agreed to solely because I had been promised pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream and gallons
of vodka. I was moping behind Ron, who actually shopped with glee.
I was standing behind a fogged and frosty freezer door, headfirst into the ice cream, when I heard Larry and Phil talking
to Ron.
“How is Teddy doing?” Larry asked.
“He’s . . .”
Before Ron could say, “right here,” Larry continued.
“I mean, knowing how his behavior must have influenced John’s mental health.”
“What do you mean?” Ron asked.
“Teddy’s antics,” Phil added. “His drinking. He was never very sensitive to John’s ups and downs. I mean, a joke and a gin
and tonic don’t make someone better.”
“Teddy loved John,” Ron said, his voice trembling. “He was the one who got John help. This was a tragedy. He will live without
his husband the rest of his life, questioning what he could have done. But love and emotional support are not a substitute
for professional treatment, and John had been lying to all of us about the help he had been receiving.”
“Teddy should have known,” Larry argued.
“This conversation—and alleged friendship—is over right now!” Ron said furiously.
By the time they had finished, I was standing in the freezer, door closed, entombed in mint chocolate chip. Ron played nursemaid
to me for another month before I could venture out again.
And here they were acting like nothing ever happened, not the conversation at the grocery or the ones behind my back, as if we just saw each other last week for drinks and a card game.
“Wonderful!” I lie. “Show’s going great, as you know.” I bow dramatically and give my tunic a dramatic flick. “The Golden
Gays are all still golden.”
Phil and Larry exchange a glance. It is not subtle. They are reading one another’s faces to gauge whether to believe my levity.
“I’m so relieved,” Larry finally says. “We’ve missed you.”
I look at both of them, my head nodding even as bile sears my stomach.
And that’s when I see it: Larry is wearing one of John’s old watches. A gold Timex I’d given to John when we first opened
Dorian Gay.
“This will forever be a symbol of time,” I told John. “Of how much it took for us to find each other, and of how much we should
celebrate every minute we have left together in this world.”
Why did I let Larry have it when he told me it would just be too painful for me to keep?
In the background, I hear Keith announce, “Karaoke is starting in the next room!”
I stand.
“Well, they’re calling my name,” I say. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes,” they both say, fidgeting, smiling a smile that lets me know I will never, ever hear from them again. Larry looks at
John’s watch. “Well, look at the time. We never stay out this late.”
I nod at the Timex. “Time sure flies,” I say. “Bye.”
I move through the crowd and head into karaoke, where I patiently wait my turn while a middle-aged gay who fancies himself
Britney Spears croons off-key, “Hit me, baby, one more time.”
“I’d like to,” I tell a couple next to me.
When it’s my turn, I pick a song few will know. Even fewer will understand its personal history. Dorothy performed this on an episode of The Golden Girls, and when I first heard her sing it, I wept—for one of the few times in my life—like a baby. I was all alone at the time,
and it struck a chord deep inside. I now sing it only when we perform that episode, and its lyrics touch me like no other.
The music to “What’ll I Do” begins to play. I sing in a deep, dramatic mezzo-soprano.
As I do, my eyes scan the crowd. Slowly, patrons began to sway.
A man walks through the spotlight, and—for one moment—his face is highlighted. My heart leaps. He looks just like John when
we first met. The man’s eyes briefly catch mine. He nods, and then he’s gone, moving through the dark like a ghost.
What’ll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?
When I’m alone with only dreams of you that won’t come true, what’ll I do?
What will I do without you, John?
When the song is over, I take a bow and then head into the darkness of the desert.
I think of Larry and Phil as I walk down the street, texting for an Uber.
So many people believed that John lived in my shadow, but he was my light. The moon, you realize, my dears, is only illuminated
by the reflection of the sun.
I stop, feeling something unfamiliar, and look up.
It is raining in the desert.